


only black days and sky gray

by Anonymous



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rape/Non-con Elements, freddie doesn’t deserve what I put him through, jim is sweet and just loves Freddie a lot, john should be given an incredible friend award, theres just so much misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes Jim and Freddie’s fights just end up ruining everything.
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous





	only black days and sky gray

He knows Jim will be mad. Of course he will be. It was just a small kiss, but that’s still a kiss. Maybe Jim will understand? He knows that’s something he does with almost everyone.

No, he probably won’t understand. 

Freddie just hopes he won’t be too mad. They’ve only been together for a few months. It can’t get bad already. They’re supposed to still be in their honeymoon phase. Why is it even called the honeymoon phase, anyway? Not like they’ll ever get married. Wait, focus: it doesn’t matter. They should still be in that phase where there’s no problems and all they think about is being together and kissing each other. Oh, and having sex too. And that certainly hasn’t been lacking.

It’s very clear from Jim’s face how mad he is. It’s not surprising; since they’ve been exclusive Freddie hasn’t kissed anyone else, of course it would be in the conditions. Maybe if he does the cutest eyes he can, Jim won’t be mad? He usually loves them so much. Not when he’s mad. Maybe if he just pretends nothing happened and he does everything to make Jim want him he’ll be fine? He just doesn’t want Jim to yell. He doesn’t want to think about Bill, or Winnie. That’s all they ever did. 

It’s probably not the best idea, and he realises it when he eventually approaches his lover. He leans in for a kiss, maybe Jim will like it if he grabs his ass? He doesn’t. He pulls Freddie away, not harshly like the singer expected, but he puts space between them, as if Freddie is contaminated with some contagious disease. With the way he looks at Freddie, anyone would believe it. 

John and Roger are watching from a few meters away. They don’t want to intrude, but at least they can see their friend if something happens. Jim seems like a sweet guy, but they’re never sure—they’ve learned that lesson well from the Persian’s previous relationships. They can never be sure if somehow Jim will turn out the same, throwing punches when there’s too much alcohol in his blood. Holding the singer’s arm too tight when all their backs are turned. Whispering disgusting words in their friend’s ear when it’s noisy enough. Just like others did before. 

“Maybe all of this would work out if you stopped acting like a whore!”

The words are loud enough to reach both musicians. They’re frozen, because this time they didn’t expect it. They watch as Freddie stares at his boyfriend, the one he told them all about and said how much he loved him. The one he said he would marry if he could. For a moment John and Roger think Freddie will do something, slap him maybe? Maybe he should. But he would never. He’s too kind for that. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I swear, I don’t mean it, baby. I-I swear.” The Irish man can’t help but cover his mouth with his hand, forever regretful of the horrible words that he cannot believe have come out of his mouth. Words that he knows will hit his boyfriend deeply, that will torment him at night when he goes to sleep. 

He knows about the past lovers, Freddie’s band mates have told him. They’ve told him about how much Freddie loves, how much Freddie trusts. They’ve told him about how much he also falls, when he’s pushed away. He’s heard about the quiet nights spent with John, the angered moments spent with Roger, the crying in Brian’s arms. And the self blame when all doors are closed, when everyone is gone. 

The Persian doesn’t move, because it hurts. Because it comes from Jim. Didn’t he say how much he loved him? That he’d never hurt him? Maybe it’s just the type of men he attracts. Men who want him for sex and then push him away when he wants more. Maybe Jim is right. Maybe he is a whore. 

He walks away when he knows he probably looks as if he’s gonna cry. Jim can’t see him like that. Then he’ll also see how much of a baby he is. John runs after him. He always does. But he doesn’t need anyone’s pity, he doesn’t need John telling him that Jim was lying, that he’s a great person, that he’s not a whore, that he’s perfect as he is. He’s tired of the lies. 

So he quickly walks in the middle of the crowd, his eyes landing on another man. He’s bigger than him, probably so much stronger. He doesn’t even bother noticing his hair colour before he takes his arm, very suggestively. There’s nothing for him to lose. Jim will leave him anyway. 

He’s taken away quickly, walking through the other men and women, pushing others and leaving some angered. It doesn’t matter. They reach the toilet; surprisingly, it’s empty. The stranger is now exposed to the light, and he doesn’t look as tempting now as he did before. Maybe only because now Freddie has had a few seconds to think, to think about how Jim will look at him after, how his band mates will, how his parents will when they hear about it. 

He tries to pull his arm away from the other man’s large hand. But he doesn’t let go. 

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” he barely manages to stutter before he’s shoved into the nearest stall. 

He’s never felt claustrophobic before, not until now, not until the door is locked and his head hits one of the walls, a cold hand covering his mouth. He feels his pants being almost ripped open. He can remember Jim telling him how pretty he looked in those, how beautiful they made him look. Dread fills him when a hand slips under his underwear, reaching for his cock. He’s horrified with himself when he gets hard, when pleasure fills him. No wonder Jim thinks he’s a whore. 

_ A disgusting filthy whore.  _

The same hand grips his leg tightly, and Freddie knows it’ll bruise. It’s the same place as the night before, the place where Jim left a soft kiss, where he put his hand delicately and made him feel loved. His cock is groped again, it’s not loving like it should be, it’s not the right hands, the ones that come with a mouth to die for, that make him feel good like no one else ever has, ever could. 

His underwear is pulled down. It’s a bit hard to breathe, because of the hand, but also because of the word that still rings in his head. All the good memories with Jim are now tarnished by someone else. All his sweet words are turned into hurtful ones, the kind that cut deeply. 

_ Whore _

The other man manages to remove his own underwear too, so quickly and expertly it makes it seem as if he's used to it, used to having to hold his hand to someone’s mouth as he pulls his pants down. 

Freddie knows he should fight, even if he knows he won’t be able to leave, he knows he should at least try. But he’s frozen to the spot, exactly like he was earlier, not sure if he should protest, or just endure it, like he’s endured so many other things. He feels dizzy anyway, probably because of the alcohol, or because of the pain. The one in his chest. 

His piercing scream is muffled when the stranger enters him, without warning, without a condom, without anything. The pain is unbearable, as if someone is tearing him in two. He prefers the slow times with Jim, the ones filled with kisses and the Irish man asking so often if he is okay. 

_ Whore  _

But now Jim won’t even want to look at him, not after he learns he fucked someone else, not after he tells him how right he was, how much of a whore he is. 

Jim will never touch him again.

  
  
  
  


John’s been searching now for quite a while. Roger told him to go and see Freddie while he deals with Jim. But there’s too many people, and he’s never been really fond of this type of place, he only comes because the boys come too. He has kids now, he can’t afford to be out every night. And there’s Ronnie, his wife, though it still seems surreal to call her like that. He’s happier than he’s ever been in his entire life. He doesn’t need the clubs.

He doesn’t know if he’ll have to dry off tears like he does with his children. He wouldn’t be surprised. He’s never seen Freddie love so much, he’s never seen him look at anyone like he looks at Jim. John doesn’t know what came over Jim, what made him so horrible, so much like everyone else. He doesn’t understand why everyone’s so committed to hurting his best friend. His best friend who wouldn’t ever hurt anyone on purpose. 

He doesn’t deserve it.

The bassist finally checks the toilet, maybe Freddie is there, hiding from anyone. He doesn’t like anyone seeing him be “weak”. Especially not in front of John. 

_ “I should be the one to comfort you, it’s embarrassing,” _ Freddie told him once. 

He doesn’t expect much when he walks in, maybe some drunk guy, only half conscious. He doesn’t expect the cries, he doesn’t expect the muffled whimpers, the stifled screams.

There’s something not quite right.

“Hello? Is everything alright?” 

He feels his heart pounding in his whole body. There’s a bit of commotion before someone quickly opens the door of a stall. The man doesn’t say anything, he just runs away and disappears, as if he was never there. 

The door hangs slightly open. There’s still someone in there, John knows it, because the cries haven’t stopped. He walks towards it slowly, a feeling in his gut telling him to open it, that it’s important. He pushes delicately on the door. 

There’s a horrible lump in his throat when he sees who’s there. 

He guesses what happened, by the tears, by the fallen down pants. John sits on his knees in front of his best friend. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he should say, if he should be comforting or if he just should get Freddie out of here, take him back home, get him under the covers until he stops crying, until everything’s fine.

Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as that. 

“Don’t tell Jim, please don’t tell him,” the singer says, choked up by tears and uneven breaths. 

He knows what will happen if Jim learns about it. He’ll be disgusted; he’ll leave. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him,” John whispers, his hand trailing softly against Freddie’s cheek, just to help him remember he’s there. “Come on, let’s get you home,” the bassist says quietly. 

The singer wants to protest, to tell John to take him home with him. But he’s too tired to say anything, he doesn’t have the energy to beg for a bit of peace. He’ll just sleep on the couch, waiting for Jim to wrap his arms around him, waiting for sweet words to be whispered in his ear. Sweet words that will never be said to him again. Not by anyone. 

John carefully pulls his pants back up, scared he’ll trigger anything. He helps his friend get up, silently takes him out of the toilet and out of the club to his car. Hopefully Roger is already gone with Jim and won’t search for them for hours. The short walk to the car is silent, and so is the drive to Freddie’s house. He’s staring outside, exactly like he would any other day. Though, his whole body seems to be trying to hide itself, exactly like when his shyness takes a bigger place. 

When they’re at Garden Lodge, Freddie immediately opens the door of the car and gets out. He doesn’t look at John when he tells him goodnight. He looks lost, as if he doesn’t know where he is.

If this isn’t home anymore, Freddie doesn’t know where he is. He closes the car door and enters the house. 

It feels as if it’s empty. It’s the same as if it was. Jim’s in the bedroom, probably sleeping, probably not wanting him in the bed with him, probably still mad at him. He could sleep in one of the other bedrooms, but his whole body is hurting and he doesn’t have the courage to walk up all those stairs. 

So he takes a blanket laying around and one of the pillows off the couch and lays on the stiff couch. He doesn’t bother removing any of his clothes, the thought makes him shiver. He barely closes his eyes before there are images in his mind that he doesn’t want to see ever again. It takes him hours to fall asleep and when he finally does, it’s with dreams filled with those same images that make him want to put even more layers on himself. 

  
  
  
  


When he opens his eyes the next morning, he realises that he’s now in his bedroom. The sun is shining through the slightly opened window, letting in a warm breeze. He still has his clothes on, thankfully. There are two blankets on him, keeping him warm and grounded. He gets confused when he realises that the only one that could have put him there is Jim. 

Only seconds after thinking about it, Jim walks in the bedroom fully clothed for the day. He quickly notices that Freddie is awake and looking at him.

“Freddie,” he says quietly, a small smile forming on his face when he sees that his lover doesn’t look mad. 

He kneels on the bed before hugging the Persian, not noticing when he flinches, when his nails slightly dig in his back with how tightly he’s holding him. He’s just glad he gets to hold his boyfriend he loves so much in his arms. He thought he’d never get to again after saying those horrible words. He doesn’t know what came over him, what even brought those words up, he’s never even thought them before. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. It was so horrible of me,” he whispers with a small lump in his throat when he remembers how Freddie looked at him when he called him such mean words. How hurt and heartbroken he looked. 

“It’s okay,” the pianist whispers.

His nose is cold in the crook of Jim’s neck and he leaves a warm spot each time he breathes out, each time he wonders if he should say it, if he should tell the truth. Jim will have to know one day or another anyway. No matter how hard the words are to get out. 

He pulls away slowly, taking Jim’s hand in his own. He gently plays with his fingers, so lovingly it almost makes Jim’s eyes go damp. Freddie drops it when the same word rings in his head again. 

_ Whore _

But Jim takes his hands again, asking for more of those gentle touches. He sees how shy Freddie is acting, how anxious he looks and guesses he wants to talk about last night, about their fight. So he does everything to calm him down. Freddie starts playing with his fingers again. 

“I shouldn’t touch you. I’m a whore,” he whispers brokenly. Saying it out loud is so painful, it makes his stomach ache terribly, it makes his eyes painfully wet. 

“Fred—” Jim tries to talk, tries to protest. 

“I cheated on you last night.”

He finally meets Jim’s eyes, regretting it immediately when he sees how Jim is looking at him. He notices how his boyfriend pulls away his hand, and it feels exactly like he’s been hit in the stomach. He closes his eyes tightly, trying to ease this horrible pain that’s almost making him dizzy. 

“I—” He thinks about saying how the guy pushed him in the stall, how he covered his mouth with his hand, how he removed his pants, his underwear and touched him places only meant to be Jim’s. But it wouldn’t change anything, because Freddie didn’t fight, he didn’t say no, he got hard— “I thought you were gonna leave me, I-I thought you didn’t want me anymore. So I thought it was already too late and that I had nothing to lose.”

He says the words, but he knows it’s useless, he knows it when he looks at Jim and sees how he doesn’t dare look at him again, how he gets up from the bed, how his fists clench and unclench so quickly. He thinks of the words Jim should be calling him, the things he is. 

_ Whore _

_ Stupid whore _

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Jim says with a laugh that contains no humour at all. 

Within seconds, he grabs a bag and shoves random pieces of clothing in it, he probably forgets things like his underwear but he doesn’t notice. Without looking back at Freddie one time, he walks out of the room, slamming the door shut, making Freddie’s whole body shake.

He grips onto the blankets as he hears the front door shut loudly. He grits his teeth to try and breathe again, to not cry. Why? He doesn’t know. There’s no one else around. No one that could see him fall apart. 

He holds onto the blankets harder, as if everything around him is gonna disappear, leaving him in an empty room. He doesn’t manage to stop the sob that chokes him up. It gets out with a few tears. He knew it would happen, he doesn’t know why he’s crying. It’s his fault. He shouldn’t be the one feeling hurt. He shouldn’t be the one feeling like he’s been cheated on. But he can’t control it and his cries come out stronger by the minute, leaving his heart empty and aching. 

Jim is gone. Forever. 

He grips his head when it hurts too much, he cries so loudly it feels as if he’s screaming. He is screaming. Maybe the neighbours think he’s being killed. It feels like being killed. No, it feels worse than being killed, like staying alive to feel all that pain of the mortal wound. He doesn’t know how this pain could ever go away. He’s never felt pain so strong. It didn’t hurt as much when David left him, when Bill hit him. Maybe he really is dying. His heart doesn’t feel broken, it feels as if it’s being torn apart. 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep living, after seeing Jim pack his bag so quickly in front of him. 

  
  
  
  


He’s been acting a bit like a zombie for the past few days. He’s living but he only does it because he has to. Because Roger will get annoyed if he doesn’t go to the studio. He goes to work everyday because it’s the only thing that can keep him sane—although he’s not sure he’s sane right now. He wishes he could spend his days crying in bed, to not have to get up, to look at least a bit presentable, to cover up the dark circles and redness from the crying under his eyes with a concealer. He wishes he wouldn’t have to smile at the boys after a joke, he wishes he wouldn’t have to care about what they’re doing with their songs, just to look normal. The physical pain is barely bearable but he doesn’t have the choice but to endure it. He bled a bit—well, a bit more than a bit. But it’s normal. Right?

He’s exhausted, he hasn't slept, not since the night before the fight. Maybe he has, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. Images of the wrong hands on his body haunt him, they keep him awake until impossible hours as he thinks about having to see the stranger again, about having his hands on him again. He feels stupid—he’s a whore, that’s what whores do. They don’t have nightmares about it happening all over again, they don’t have nightmares about their boyfriends walking in on them being with someone else and taking them away to yell at them loudly, so loudly that they almost feel deaf by the end of it. They don’t have nightmares about their boyfriend walking in on them with other men and watching, barely noticing what’s wrong, not caring about the screams of pain, not caring how dirty it’s gonna make them feel. 

_ Because they’re normal and you’re not. _

Life isn’t worth living if Jim isn’t in Freddie’s. 

Freddie doesn’t notice when John sits beside him while he stares into nothing, his mind not shutting up. He wants peace. He wants Jim back. 

“Did you tell him?” John whispers, not dumb enough to say it out loud and get Brian and Roger’s attention, which isn’t much needed at the moment. 

Of course he told them, he knows it’s not right, but it would make him stay up at night otherwise. He did tell them to never talk about it to anyone or he’d murder them both. It made his heart feel a bit less heavy when he told them what happened, even if a bigger part of him was extremely worried about Freddie. But he knows at least Freddie’s not alone. He has Jim—even after he said what he said, John doesn’t believe Jim is actually bad for Freddie. He doesn’t believe that Jim could be like the others. 

Freddie nods, pursing his lips a bit to avoid crying again. Not in front of John. 

“How did it go?” the bassist asks quietly, not actually really believing that it went badly.

“He left me,” Freddie says before clearing his throat lightly, the urge to cry a bit stronger. But he’s not gonna cry, he’s not gonna allow himself to. Not today, or at least not until all the lights are off and he’s lying in his bed tonight. 

The answer leaves John breathless. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s confused, because that’s not how he ever thought Jim could be. He doesn’t seem like that kind of guy. And he knows how men sometimes hide the uglier side of themselves, but he always had a small feeling something was wrong with Freddie’s previous boyfriends. With Jim, he had trusted him quickly, feeling as if nothing could turn out really bad about him. He trusted him to love Freddie like he deserves to be loved. 

John goes to take Freddie’s hand in comfort, but the singer gets to his feet quickly, ignoring what he just said as if it’s nothing big, as if it’s something he can brush off easily. He wants to ask John why he looks so surprised, why Jim would stay after learning that, but he won’t. He just wants this conversation to be over.

John is determined to find out what the hell went through Jim’s mind. 

  
  
  
  


When the studio session ends, he takes his things and goes back home quickly, telling Veronica he needs to go do something, that he’ll be late for dinner. He can’t bear to watch Freddie hurt, and it’s obvious that he is; he’s not so good at hiding his feelings. He gets quieter, more in his head. 

The bassist doesn’t hesitate too much before deciding to go to Jim’s friend’s house. He can’t quite remember how he got his address, but he has it and he’s very glad he does. After giving each of his kids a kiss on the cheek, and a kiss on Veronica’s lips, of course, he walks directly there. He doesn’t want to wait, he doesn’t want to wait for Freddie to be even more miserable. He knows what happens when he gets sadder, he’s seen it before, he’s seen the rooms filled with lines of cocaine left on tables, cigarette ashes laying around disgustingly everywhere and alcohol bottles covering the dirty floor. He’s also seen the look in Freddie’s eyes when it happens, the silent plea for a bit of love, for someone that could listen to him, someone that could want him, even when he’s yelling at the top of his lungs for everyone to leave him alone. John doesn’t want it to get that bad again. Not ever. 

He’s nervous when he knocks on the door. He prays Jim will explain, and then listen. He prays Jim will come back, make this right, make Freddie happy again.

The door opens so quickly he barely sees it. It’s Jim, in pyjama bottoms, looking as if he’s not slept in weeks, a shadow in front of his tired eyes. He sighs and runs his hands on his face when he sees John and understands what he’s here for. 

“What do you want?” he asks coldly. 

He tries to act as if this isn’t bothering him, as if he doesn’t care. But his heart still hurts terribly when he thinks of other hands touching Freddie, making him feel good. It’s not that he’s usually insecure, but it’s hard not to be with someone like Freddie. He knows it’s not right, but he does think about Freddie being a celebrity sometimes, having whoever he wants. Maybe during the first weeks of their relationship he would have been angrier if he learned about the cheating, he would have told Freddie ‘fuck off’, that it’s his loss. But he’s never felt so strongly about anyone else before, and it hurts really bad to think about not being in Freddie’s life anymore, which is what is currently happening. 

He cried; he tried not to, but when his friend was gone he did let himself go a bit and maybe a few tears fell. Multiple tears fell, really. He felt guilty for it and he still does, and he feels guilty for thinking about Freddie, for worrying. Is he okay? He shouldn’t worry, not after what Freddie did. But it’s who he is, he can’t help but worry about the man he loves deeply. Is Freddie as miserable as he is right now?

“Okay, Jim, you’re gonna have five minutes to explain to me what the fuck is wrong with you before I lose my bloody mind,” John treathens, he definitely looks threatening with that hard frown on his face. 

It doesn’t take long for Jim to feel anger boiling slowly but strongly in him. He didn’t do anything wrong and he’s not gonna act like he did. His hand grips the wall tightly, his knuckles turning white. 

“What’s wrong with me? Because you think I should have just shut up and told him ‘It’s okay Freddie, just keep cheating on me, I don’t mind!’?” Jim spits evenly. 

John gets taken aback for a few seconds. Freddie cheating on Jim?

“He didn’t cheat on y—”

“You can ask him that.” Jim cuts him off. He feels suddenly so angry. A sadistic smile shows up on his face. He doesn’t want to be mean, but he’s so tired of hurting and if this is the only way it hurts a bit less than it’s worth it. “He’ll tell you himself.”

“Oh my god,” John whispers. 

Everything starts to make sense and John finally understands. The horrible words, then what happened, then the  _ begging  _ to not tell Jim, the shame. His heart fills up with a pain he can’t describe when he realises what Freddie must be thinking, what he must believe happened. It fills him with dread, and  _ no _ , Freddie shouldn’t believe that. It’s not right. 

“I swear, Jim, he didn’t cheat on you. Just listen to me, okay? It’s just a big misunderstanding,” John explains quickly. 

It fills Jim with a bit of hope that maybe John is right, that everything is fine, that they can go back to exactly how they were a few days ago. He nods while swallowing hard, his mouth is dry with the anticipation, he’s too scared to say anything. 

“After your fight, he walked away, right? Well I-I searched for him for a while, Jim. But—oh god.” It’s as hard to get out as it was when he told Brian and Roger, the words are still too painful, even for him. “He got raped,” he whispers. 

Jim’s mind doesn’t get it instantly, it takes him a few seconds for the words to hit him, for them to completely destroy him. He needs to close his eyes for a few seconds, having to control all the guilt that’s being shoved into his face. He knows it’s not really his fault, he couldn’t have possibly known it, but he still regrets not listening to what Freddie would want to say. Though maybe he  _ wouldn’t _ have said anything—not after being called a whore. 

“Oh god, I need to fix this,” Jim says, a bit choked up. 

John nods, relieved, and Jim immediately thanks John for telling him, then runs to get his coat after saying goodbye to the bassist. He needs to make it better. 

  
  
  
  


It feels different looking at Freddie now that he knows what happened. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, it’s just that, looking in his eyes and knowing what he could be thinking is a whole other thing, something that makes it a bit hard to breathe. He looks so beautiful too, and that might be another reason why Jim finds it difficult to breathe normally. 

“You can go get your things, I won’t bother you,” Freddie explains painfully, his voice low and so incredibly sad. 

He sits on the couch, legs pulled tightly against his chest, hands busy holding his steaming hot tea cup. He wants to jump on Jim, kiss him, let him envelope him in his strong arms. He wants to sleep happily with his head on Jim’s chest with a hand playing in his hair.

He doesn’t expect to get what he wants.

But surprisingly, Jim takes a few steps forward and eventually stands in front of the couch. He kneels on the cold and hard floor, wanting to be a bit more at Freddie’s height. He carefully puts his hands on each of his shoulders, slowly pulling him in his arms. 

“John told me what happened. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

The confession scares Freddie more than slightly. He told John to not talk about it. He doesn’t know anyway what more he could have said about it that convinced Jim to come back.

But still, he’s not going to complain.

Freddie nods before crashing their lips together. He can’t wait to erase all the feelings of someone else’s hands on him. He just needs for Jim to touch him and he’ll be fixed. Everything will be fine again. So no matter how much his heart races, he leads Jim’s hands to his waist, starting to make Jim lay on the couch so they can get it over with. 

“Fred—” Jim begins to say. 

“Shut up.” The singer growls, determined to get this done. He crashes his lips back on his lover’s. 

His nightgown is widely opened, revealing his hairy chest; he doesn’t like being so exposed. He shouldn’t be so bothered by it, it’s not like he’s never been naked in front of Jim. He forces himself to remove Jim’s belt from his pants, ignoring the horrible lump in his throat. 

“We don’t have condoms, Freddie.”

“We don’t need any,” he answers impatiently. 

Why is Jim being so difficult? It’s just sex, it’s not like they’ve never done it before. 

“We don’t have lube, love,” Jim says softly, he tries to make it seem as if he’s not  _ rejecting  _ Freddie, but he doesn’t want to hurt him, not physically and not mentally. He doesn’t want to scar Freddie even more badly. 

“We don’t need any,” the singer snaps again.

His mind feels somewhere else for a few seconds. Memories flash back in, but he shakes his head to make them leave. His heart falls when he realises something: Jim isn’t hard. A horrible pain sets in, ruining everything. Jim doesn’t want him, Jim doesn’t find him attractive enough anymore. 

“I don’t think we should do this, Fred.”

_ Whore _

Freddie stays still a few seconds. He’s still gripping Jim’s T-shirt. He feels sick, sick with the disgust he feels for himself. He feels sick because Jim doesn’t want him anymore, he feels sick because he knows that the memories won’t ever go away if Jim doesn’t touch him again. He’ll forever have the feeling of those hands on him. 

He gets up and ties his nightgown shut incredibly tightly, now feeling so ashamed for asking Jim for it. For looking like such a  _ whore.  _ He doesn’t have time to walk away because Jim takes his hand quicker and brings him back on top of him. He doesn’t stay sitting there though, he’s brought on his belly, head in Jim’s neck. He feels a bit warmer. 

“Relax, there’s no need to rush, baby. I’m not leaving ever again. Go to sleep, I’ll be there when you wake up,” Jim whispers in Freddie’s ear. 

Laying down against Jim’s chest makes him sleepy almost immediately. He’s missed the feeling of being so close to him without having to try to please. His eyes feel incredibly heavy and they even close without his permission. 

“I love you so much,” he hears before he falls into a, for once, peaceful deep slumber. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ Rough and cold hands are still touching him everywhere, leaving dark marks that he’s already ashamed of.  _

No, it’s fine, there are soft, warm hands touching him carefully, only where he wants them. 

It’s just Jim. 

_ There’s a hand, over his mouth, wet from his tears, trapping him.  _

There’s nothing on his mouth, he can say whatever he likes if something occurs to him, he doesn’t have to scream, to cry to be heard. 

_ He’s on a hard wall, standing up on his weak and shaking legs, his knees are on fire.  _

He’s on a comfortable mattress, legs laying down peacefully. 

_ There is the face of a stranger with sharp features. A face he doesn’t recognize, he doesn’t love. _

There’s the face of the man he loves, soft eyes and a sweet dimple on each slightly chubby cheek. 

_ There’s an unbearable pain, one that he doesn’t believe will ever go away, a pain too strong for what he can handle.  _

There’s no pain, maybe discomfort, but it’s disappearing when he stares in his lover’s eyes. 

_ He’s disgusted with himself, ashamed that he allowed this to happen, ashamed that he’s fallen this low.  _

He’s disgusted with himself, ashamed that he allowed this to happen, ashamed that he’s fallen this low. 

Jim can do so much better than him. 

“Baby?” Jim whispers. He puts his hand delicately on Freddie’s face, concern showing on his face. He removes it when the singer flinches. “Look at me, baby.”

Their eyes eventually meet, but Freddie can’t open his mouth to say anything, there’s a deep sense of hysteria in him as Jim hovers over him. He holds onto Jim’s arm to not let himself panic too much, what will Jim think of him then?

There are no words coming out of his mouth, no air coming in. No, no,  _ no,  _ if Jim realises he’s not normal then he’ll leave. He’ll go away again, he’ll take his things and  _ leave. _

“Freddie, breathe,” Jim says quietly. 

There are subtle images flashing in front of Freddie’s eyes. No,  _ not again.  _ He feels sick, he feels those hands again. They’re not Jim’s. They’re not warm, not soft, not comforting. 

“Freddie, listen to me sweetheart. We’re here, together, at Garden Lodge. An hour ago, we were sunbathing in our beautiful garden that we designed together, where I made all those beautiful flowers you chose grow.” His voice is soft, slow, he makes sure Freddie hears every word, feels comforted by them, grounded. 

“There are your cat babies just downstairs, waiting to eat dinner near us in just a few hours. And we’re gonna have a big big big cuddle with them later.”

“Our cat babies,” Freddie whispers with pinkish cheeks. 

“ _ Our _ cat babies,” Jim repeats with a smile wider than his actual face. “I love you so bloody much, baby. I wouldn’t want anyone else but you because you’re perfect just how you are. You’re incredibly kind and sexy and you make beautiful songs that not only me but the whole world loves.”

Eventually, Freddie’s breath evens out and a smile forms on his previously scared face. He doesn’t let go of Jim’s arm, instead he gets closer to his lover, asking him without words to cuddle him now, to make him feel so loved. 

“I love you so much too,” he whispers, head already squished on the Irishman’s chest. 

“And you’ve no idea how much I love you, sweetheart,” Jim answers with certainty. 

The memories don’t stop coming, but at least now Freddie doesn’t feel like he’s alone to deal with them. Jim isn’t leaving.  _ Ever. _

  
  



End file.
